Observed

Augmentation of the overhead lights.

Let the sweat flow

while stood in a crowded state of alone.

An empty room be the coliseum for clashing motives.

Act or reckon with it;

act or hesitate in the street.


The self encased in overhanging lamps,

domineering in their limitless eyesight,

the mind obtuse when consigned to view abuse around every bend.


Strangers do not pass these days;

they linger in each step.

They see ambulance sirens in papercuts,

a push away from clicking away at decomposition,

prepared for the public’s ridicule.


Slink through the alleys but shadows are but temporary,

a comfort disintegrated in circadian woes.

Forced to play fact or fiction in every interaction.

Flipping coins to guess where best to place trust,

but every result hits with the head landing six feet down.


Please shut off the sun.

I know someone’s arching them.

Turn down the bright, wide diatribe.

I hear it in its unspoken tongues,

reading disapproval against approval,

where libel’s dripping in syllables,

Trickling down the artifice until rotted away do I stay,

a skeleton for everyone to tuck into the crevices.


Keep the door closed and locked tight.

My eyes have grown sore of the unwavering light.

~

❤ Mitch

Buried, Unburied

Here comes the familiar shadow,

on schedule for temporary malfunctions.

Stepping off the dock with purpose in relaxed steps;

a rehearsed motion to proceed into deconstruction.

The same greeting at the doorstep.

ushered in to sit and stare off into the back of my skull,

laser-like precision undermining defenses,

leaking out the lies of positive mindsets

drying on stained linoleum next to yeast lakes and small mistakes.


Shake hands to reach agreement;

let the nadirs inhabit the page again.

Swipe a pen left and right as a dance held by a string,

playing puppet master over trauma that dictates how it roves.


It’s all too common to shatter routine’s grip.

A choking grasp is too frequent to voice objection,

but a lover’s hug that shows meaning

and the reasoning behind the screaming quiet of the room.


Open up for the familiar shadow.

Notebooks strewn across without weight to bear it down,

be it metaphor or literal or caught between,

convinced of the veracity of harm when asked for,

but unsure why it’s requested beside an opportunity to thrive;

to catch the spotlight upon the crude language of my wrists,

placing all hope onto a fragile medium

where slow suffocation is a destiny

and I’m losing the argument against it.


Welcome the familiar shadow as it arrives.

Patchwork prose is enough to clog the blood.

Unleash the limitations and the reoccurring thoughts will leech.

Cross fingers and believe it leads to peace.

~

❤ Mitch

Fix Me Up, Darling!

Dimly lit

cause & effect scenarios.

Invisible hand guiding.

Shapeshifters of fluctuating fantasy.

Cyclical lack of drama

to salvage the twilight

when the doldrums await in the morning

as they always have and always will.


Escape to an escapade,

disguises handed liberally,

history abused sufficiently,

drained of potential impermanence.

It sits in the bed to wait.

It twists its toes in anticipation.


The doldrums are calling for a punch in,

beckoning per usual.

Dim the lights,

decompress,

and remember the guilt

the moment after the joy.

~

( Mitch ❤ )

Update: Present, Future, All of the Above

Well, hello there. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve checked in here, hasn’t it? After attempting to return to my usual posting habits, I lost track of things and inevitably shifted heightened focus to my Instagram habits. However, at a certain point, I would definitely enjoy offering new poems on here on a regular basis. There’s still plenty I have yet to share and many more that I am still creating, so there’s certainly no shortage of material to sort through. What it currently boils down to is a matter of establishing a routine, regaining consistency, and then maintaining both of those factors.

Outside of this resolve, I have a lot of news to share. Primarily, I’d like to introduce you all to a novel aspect of my creating journey: a shop! A few months back, I began a series of drawings with accompanying poems on larger slices of paper. These could then be fitted into a small picture frame for display. I’ve decided to move forward with my initial hopes of selling them by using KoFi’s built in store capabilities. As of right now, four of the eight Frames series pieces are available on the shop tab! Each one possesses a unique poem and drawing, handmade using pen ink.

Secondly, to circle back to my Instagram account: I am nearly at 1,000 followers! This milestone would be impossible without massive support from the poetry community of WordPress and Instagram. I owe my thanks to all of those that have shown such incredible support throughout this journey, as you are all the reason why I continue to aspire for greater things. I greatly enjoy writing, and because I have encountered so many amazing people by doing so, I feel more motivated to push onwards. Hopefully this goal can be hit by the end of the year! That’d be an absolutely insane gift.

To those that still check this website; you are awesome. I know I am very unreliable these days when it comes to getting new content up here, but I can assure you that I’ll get around to it soon enough. A lot of stuff is changing, and there will be further projects to come. Thank you for sticking around. Time to close the year off strong!

~

(Mitch <3)

She Will Be Next

Snake ropes operate as vines around an estate.

Inflicted are the faults.

Inflicted are the flaws.

Strange, the way disease becomes our medicine,

diagnosed in scribbled notes and urges for the masochist,

embroiled as we come to be in the fiction of reality.

To find screaming solitude in crowded rooms;

boundless exile read between the lines of forced empathy.


Without a day to live in the shoes of another,

how quickly it comes to be that we reduce ourselves to atrophy

in a seduction by a remedy conflated with the irony:

That which is held behind the shield is what plans the fatal wound.

That which is ignored in the unspeakable clatter of bottles.


Is it inadequacy that plagues the mutual condition of predetermined graves?

Swerving memories collide into the present reel;

trauma’s swinging wild in the blurs of trust and liars,

where all the same are reduced to those to bear the blame.

Is it the guilt of the survivor, clutching to reminders,

collecting cuts from a paper trail of marked wrists and circled calendar dates?


Inflicted are the drifters,

abound in life, placed in a mind unaware,

seeing only the passing glimmer of the model citizen,

losing sight of the dim interiors where the paint peels at the edges,

presenting a structure splintered at the hinges.

What more but another day losing to the struggle,

time blended under moon and sun as if neither rose or fell.

Shifting weather forgets the fair friend under a depleted atmosphere

where clouds are the sky’s absolutes,

and the ebb and flow from rising to sleeping comes only in resolute grey.


Among us all are we all that see the absolute alone,

steadfast in the worry of showing too deep into the bone

where the sad secret of holding on to tomorrow is but a thread of marrow.


To navigate by a landmine society,

it seems strange when the explosions resonate;

a shockwave per decimal shaved off,

concealed in black dresses and shuffled eulogies,

prayed away until another wanderer is pushed to demise.

It bites until being is consumed.

The urge astounds until it crystallizes in weariness,

uncomfortably understood,

betting seconds away as a clock’s hands unceremoniously expire,

as we all find ourselves out of time eventually.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

Did the Forest Ever Grow?

Weapons come undone as a stray glance empties my ammunition.

Armed with rehearsal,

I’m reminded of the cold embrace of insecurity

that possibility pierces straight through

when I dare to place a thought behind your eyes.

An unexplored galaxy lies somewhere out of observation

that no level of telescopic reality can define.

Limited to the infinite thinning tunnel of secondhand guesses,

let reason slip into the wind that sets forward poorly aimed ambitions.


Not a leg to stand on beside the crutch henceforth abused

where I dictate direction to a singular option

based off of the emotion that fails to exit from the boundaries of action.

Flowered sentences sprout the prose the ear salivates for,

ever failing to see replication in how a step forward equals a step retreating;

a wanting hand receives no return;

a plan to silence the silence nullifies all sound.


It’s turbulence in nothingness

with the apparent dismantled,

relishing in manufactured revelations

only brought to form in twilight telephone calls with loneliness on the line.

It’s a sign to be uncovered in quieted inquiries;

the understated aftermath of a carefully unbalanced conversation,

artfully articulated yet blank enough for distance.

It’s a sign to hear in music that screams connected names,

yet come the inevitable skips on wax, I’m fumbling to justify

how your little details are but the sum of their parts

and the tale they spin is what I use to fulfill the empty spaces.


It’s all I already know but refuse to truly know,

and now having sights set on the unsubstantial incorporeal,

I craft adoration for the invisible,

constructing ghosts out of deceased concepts,

living a forever pretend story immersed in allegory

where the meaning I placed into rehearsal relies on what you would never do;

what you would never say;

what you would never see;

but what I’ll always try to make,

for it’s the best I’ll be able to take:

A petrified crutch on a maimed limb.

It won’t last much longer.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

distance is fondest

diet affection

in throes of malpractice

since the new arrangement

tried in the jury of our ill judgement

and ushered out the door hastily,

now knocking aggressively.

could perceive the volume increase

even with flies exiting our minds


in and out of our mouths,

sewing the distrust revolving about.


false truth and four truths,

or pick the harsher route.

no better than Russian roulette games.

don’t spot the difference between lies.

every move improvised during destruction or construction.

save the dramatics for the newer arrangement.

tell me it’ll fix things for real.

~

( ❤ Mitch)

He Sure Did Try His Best, Right up to When He Stopped Trying His Best

It’s a healthy alternative when ingested internally.

It’s not a wayward strike against another hull.

I’m calling the shots to aim the shots and down the shots.

The pain’s a construct I prop up on sinew’s brick and mortar,

eroding into tsunami waves that rise without the grace of prediction.

Weather calls for whether or not it wants to witness violence.

I maim the desired target on the desired time.

It’s a healthy alternative when I keep my hands to myself.


Self-made timeout corner session,

making notes on the new scar messages.

It’s fine enough when you’re not peaking.

Keep those eyes off of my prize.

This tumble is going to cover a lot of ground.

They’ll fail to see so long as they forget to see.

Turn and let the tragedy write itself out of gas,

and the smoke can dissipate as the whispers of remembrance.

Checkmate, No Turns Taken

You scored victory and took up the pen’s shovel.

Strokes move earth to migrate problems into trenches.

Bury it and patch over it with rosery:

the beautification of misery.

What a stunning scene you’d never portray;

a display that great lengths would never be provided to.

The loser reads the history in upturned soil.

Fables are only the imagination of separate souls.

One size fits all fails to fit all

once minds break out of the reign of normalcy.

Fantasy is the wish of the defeated after checking the pages,

realizing the placement or lack thereof,

persuaded to obey the conquistador.

Change of the language or cut off the tongue.

Lost sway with a nature’s touch.

Full dependency on the nurture.

This is the best that could be discovered.

Goodbye to the Beautiful World

It stares back with a laugh like malice.

Rapid-fire grins shot against demand,

straight across the bow at sundown,

prepared to blockade exits in a hedge maze,

thorns stood to be sentries in solitude.

Encased in monochrome elegance around whatever surface,

colorless in the eternal reel of the past,

bending to attach across any expanse of progress

lest its unshakable presence does battle with forgetfulness.


Temptation laced with nostalgia’s aroma,

lacing dalliances in quicksand,

twisting about at the threat of finding where the particles go,

yet alone in desire’s thought to plunge and discover.

Consumed by the weathered discard of nowhere lands,

tasting descension in its bitter embodiment.

Enamored by and kept at the behest of misery’s scent,

matching to the enthralling throes of scratched forms.


The pain is the beauty to understand.

The beauty is the sour grace of going under.

The mangled knee is consequence.

The lesson is in circumstance.


Find it in propaganda tongues taped to billboards,

towering monoliths of the mausoleum to shrunken ambition.

Witness the eras erupting between a smile and the present.

Define the error in sallow cheeks,

dragged down,

drugged to Hell and back,

less color than the last,

less color in the next,

where within withered a will to survive.


The pain is the beauty of observation;

an exodus of being caught in the crevices.

The pain is the beauty of understanding

what happened was the glory that can never be returned.

It will linger but in distance, separated.

The glory is the best

and it has already gone.

~

( ❤ Mitch)